


Ashmaker

by KrastBannert



Series: The Good, the Bad, and the Life in Between [2]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, F/M, Firebending & Firebenders, Fluff, Found Family, Freedom Fighters, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Pining, Racism, but it's pretty minor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25171189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrastBannert/pseuds/KrastBannert
Summary: Ashmaker - a slur and insult to citizens of the Fire Nation, even (and especially against) those with mixed Fire Nation-Earth Kingdom heritageThey were all the same. They were refugees. Outcasts. Orphans made by a war started so long ago that peace wasn't something any of them considered. But here, they had a chance to start over. And with a new life, for each one came a new name. Here, now, he's Longshot - the refugee, the orphan, the archer, the Freedom Fighter.But once, not so long ago, he had been someone different. Once, his mother had been earth, dirt, and stone; his father, smoke and fire and warmth. Once, his name had been Kazon. Once, he had been a citizen of Fire. And always, he had been a firebender. But no matter who he was or where he went, the same question burned in his heart:Will he ever be more than just another ashmaker?------Trigger warnings for racism, racial slurs, and semi-graphic to graphic depictions of violence and torture.
Relationships: Jet & Longshot (Avatar), Longshot & Smellerbee (Avatar), minor Longshot/Smellerbee
Series: The Good, the Bad, and the Life in Between [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858354
Comments: 39
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter I - An Ending, a Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this story while I was reading ["Agni's Call"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24891136/chapters/60225949) by mahkent. It's unfinished and kind of short, but it's very good and very sweet. I don't really have much else to say here, so if you've got questions or want to rant and rage at me about something you didn't like, drop me a comment, and I hope you enjoy the story!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kazon learns a new word, one that will haunt him, even as his life is ripped from him, even as he gets a new name.

_“New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.” – Lao Tzu_

-[-]- 

_Ashmaker_.

Kazon first hears the word when he is eight. He’s sitting by the side of the road in front of his house, playing with a little ball of fire, tossing it back and forth between his hands. He looks up as a line of people walks by. He stares wide-eyed at the soldiers in their deep red armor, each of whom give him a smile and a nod. But the people they’re walking with, the ones dressed in browns and greens and not wearing shoes…they _glare_. They spit. The pure _hate_ in their eyes – Kazon had never seen anything like that before.

“Ashmaker,” one of them growls. The man yanks on the chains on his wrists, and Kazon startles backwards as the scary man is shoved back into line by one of the soldiers.

“Sorry, son,” the soldier says to him, kneeling on the ground next to Kazon.” Don’t let these Earth Kingdom people discourage you. Firebending is a _gift_. Never forget that.”

He smiles up at the soldier and promises he will. The soldier gives him a little smile, claps on the shoulder, and disappears down the road.

Kazon never forgets what the soldier told him. He never forgets what the Earth Kingdom man says, either.

He hears it more and more. He hears people in chains shouting it as they walk by the fields he clears with his fire. He hears it sometimes in town as he slowly learns the basics from one of the old soldiers, and as he shows his friends little tricks he figures out. He’s young, but he can tell it’s not a good word.

He can hear it in the way the chained people say it, their voices full of anger and hate and _rage_. He asks his parents what it means, and they change the subject. He asks his sister when she comes home on leave, and her face goes pale and she gives him a stern look with an order not to bring it up again.

So he doesn’t. But he still hears people say it.

After a while, he stops hearing it. The people in chains - he’s old enough to know what they are: _prisoners_ \- stop coming by when he’s ten. And, for a while, he forgets the word even exists.

Kazon suddenly remembers it when he’s twelve. He stands in a field he helped clear, the land now blackened and barren. He doesn’t know why, but he just stands there amongst the smoke and looks down at his hands. He watches the ash drift in the afternoon wind. The word just appears in his mind. Suddenly, he thinks he understands. But he doesn’t – not really.

When he’s fourteen, the soldiers come for him. He knows why, of course. Everyone does. Colonial conscription has been the law for a century, and as far as he knows, it’ll be the law for a long time to come. The Fire Nation needs her sons and daughters, but they need to be taught how to fight. He’s not sure he doesn’t really want to fight, though. He wants to be a farmer. A man of the land, someone who works with his hands. He doesn’t want to be known just as an _ashmaker_.

So he hides in his room as the soldiers talk to his parents. He listens as their voices get louder and louder until suddenly there’s a crash, and a roar, and he smells smoke and something cooking. His father crashes through his bedroom door with a wild look in his eyes. There’s fire raging behind his father’s back – it’s hot, _so_ hot, hotter than anything he’s ever felt in his life. Kazon can’t stop staring at it.

“Run,” he says,” just run. Run, Kazon, take your bow and _run!_ I’ll be right behind you!”

He listens to his father. He trusts him. He knows he’ll keep his word. But as Kazon jumps out his window and rolls to his feet, he turns to look back. And he realizes his father won’t be coming as a giant man in armor appears in the window behind his father. He grabs Kazon’s father, pulls him back into the house, and throws him into the flames. Kazon can’t look away as the armored man extends his hands and fire _pours_ from his palms.

His father screams. Kazon runs.

He runs as far as his legs can carry him into the woods, and then he runs even farther. He runs up hills, through streams, through fields until its nearly nightfall. He climbs up a tree for safety to sleep, making sure he leaves no trace for the soldiers to follow him. The trees are tall, taller than any he’s ever climbed, but he makes it up. He sits on a branch, ties himself to it so he won’t fall, and looks over. He sees a distant glow in the direction he came from.

He knows what it is.

He closes his eyes, tries to get some rest, but sleep never comes. He can still hear his father screaming. He can feel the flames that are miles away as if they were _right here_. He can still smell _something_ burning – he knows what it is.

_Firebending is a gift_ , he tries to tell himself. It doesn’t help.

-[-]- 

When he finally gets far enough away that he doesn’t think the soldiers are immediately behind him, he stops to take a look at his supplies. He doesn’t have much – just his bow, his quiver, and his waterskin. No bag, no spark rocks, nothing else. He always his fire, but he…he can’t use it. He _won’t_. He still feels the heat of the flames on his face, on his back. He still smells _everything_ burning. His father screaming out…he can’t do it.

His stomach growls as he walks, and he wants _so badly_ to just stop in a town, and eat something, _anything_ but the nuts and berries he’s been living on for the past week. But he can’t – it’s too big a risk right now.

He manages to catch a fish one day with his bow, and he tries to cook it without fire. He just tries to sear it in his hands. The fish burns, and Kazon eats it anyway. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted – tough and charred, but still undeniably solid.

But something about his fire…it makes him want to vomit.

He wanders in the woods for what seems like forever. It’s several days, at least – maybe more. He loses track somewhere along the line, sleeping in trees and in hollows. He walks east, towards the rising sun. It feels right. All his life, whenever he woke up, he looked at the sun. Kazon had never known why until he asked the old soldier who taught him firebending.

“As firebenders, we feel Agni’s call,” he’d said.” We feel it in our bodies, our hearts, our souls. When Agni rises in the sky, we rise with him.”

He remembers the old man’s teachings by heart and thinks about them as he walks. In the evenings, at his little campsites, after he practices his archery, he tries to meditate. He refuses to practice his firebending except to make himself a fire. He tries to meditate, like the old man had said – breathing in and out, face cast up to the setting sun. But it’s hard, now that he’s seen what fire can do. It’s so much harder now that he _knows_.

That night, he cries himself to sleep. His dreams are full of flame, and ash.

-[-]- 

It’s been nearly a month, if Kazon’s guess is right. He’s lived off nuts and berries, and his stomach hurts. But he refuses to cook another fish. He just…he can’t do it. So he keeps searching for nuts and berries. That’s it. And one day, he thinks that he’s _finally_ scored – lychee nuts. They’re just lying in a pile on the ground. Free for the taking. He reaches for them, but something tells him to stop.

He thinks for a moment, and almost bursts out laughing.

It’s so obvious. How anyone would fall for it, he doesn’t know. But obviously people do – why set the trap if people don’t? Animals, he supposes. Luckily for him, he’s at least a little smarter than that. Kazon finds a stick and uses it to lightly pull some of the nuts over to him. He finds a tree to lounge against, sets his bow down, and starts to eat. They go down easy, and when he’s finished he decides to allow himself a rare moment of rest.

He leans back against the tree and admires the forest. It’s _beautiful_ – every tree is in resplendent fall colors. Ambers and reds and golds and oranges decorate the branches of trees bigger than he’s ever seen. Sunlight shines through the leaves and creates patterns on the forest floor. A light breeze makes the leaves sway, and the patterns dance.

He imagines, for a moment, that this is what his people’s homeland looks like. He’s never been to the Fire Nation – his family is too poor for that – but he’s _always_ wanted to go. He wants to see the volcanoes, the ancient temples, the Capital. He wants to see it _all_. Even with the distaste of knowing what his people can do, he still wants to go.

Now, though, he doubts he ever will.

His ears perk up – there, he hears it again. A soft crack, barely audible – someone had just broken a stick. He slowly rises to his feet, bow in hand with an arrow notched. His eyes dart back and forth, searching, looking. The hair raises on the back of his neck. Someone is watching him. He _knows_ it. Kazon’s eyes slowly roll upwards, and suddenly everything clicks.

A low creaking. He whirls, looses one arrow, draws another and looses, draws, looses. The rhythm is so simple he could be hunting turkey ducks. The rope breaks from the first arrow, and the second and third pin his attacker to the tree. He smiles dimly, then it droops to a frown.

His attacker is a thin, scrawny, boyish-looking girl with thick brown hair. She looks to be about the same age as him. She’s wearing scruffy, dirty clothes and ill-fitting armor, a blue head band, and she’s got four red stripes on her face, two on each cheek. She’s struggling and pulling at the arrows, trying to get down, cursing under her breath. His heart sinks: he can tell, she’s just like him. A refugee, a runaway, just trying to survive. It doesn’t explain everything to his satisfaction, but it’s a start. So he throws his bow on the ground, steps up to the tree, and begins to climb.

The glare the girl sends him stops him in his tracks. He backs off and holds his hands in the air, palms out. He halts when he feels something poke his back.

“Take three steps forward, turn around, and get on your knees,” the voice of a man behind him says. He complies, and when he looks up, he’s staring into a pair of hooked swords, a piece of straw, and coal black eyes. He gulps.

“Who are you?” the man asks. Kazon just stares up at him. The coal black eyes narrow.” Alright, not talkative. First question: you Fire Nation?”

Kazon could hear the disdain, the hatred. He sees the way the man – _boy_ , Kazon realizes, because he can’t be more than a year older than him – brandishes a hook sword. This boy has no love for the Fire Nation. He makes a split second decision and shakes his head no.

It’s not _technically_ a lie – runaway conscripts _are_ considered traitors – but something twists painfully inside him all the same. And, if we were to be honest, he’s not really sure he _wants_ to be Fire Nation anymore. Luckily his answer seems to be the right one, as the boy lowers his sword slightly. He chews thoughtfully on his straw.

“Alright. You running from the Fire Nation?” A nod, and this time he can tell the full truth. It feels good to do that.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” a raspy voice says behind him. He shakes his head – he thinks it’s the girl. Her voice sends a little shiver down his spine.

“Bee, come on, I’m doing something here,” the boy says, glaring over Kazon’s head. He looks back down at Kazon.” The Fire Nation do something to you? Kill your family or something like that?”

Kazon hesitates, and a fire lights in his chest and his eyes begin to sting before he slowly nods. The boy’s eyes soften a little.

“Yeah, we’re all a little like that. Fucking _ashmakers_ ,” he mutters, and Kazon has to school his face. Hearing that again with such vitriol…it hurts.” That was some impressive shooting. I’ve got a…little group that could use an archer, especially one as good as you. We’re trying to make a difference by fighting the Fire Nation.”

“And we got decent food, too,” the girl rasped. She touched his thigh with her boot.” Looks like you could use some.”

His stomach grumbles and Kazon snorts at the irony, a small smile crossing his face. He nods.

“So, you in?” the boy asks. He nods emphatically. He sheathes his swords and pulls Kazon to his feet.” I’m Jet, this is Smellerbee. You don’t have to tell us your real name if you don’t want to. We can come up with a nickname for you.”

Kazon nods, squeezes Jet’s hand. He thinks Jet might be about his age, probably a farm boy like him, judging by the weathered knuckles and hardened calluses. He turns and shakes Smellerbee’s hand – her hand is small and rough with fresh calluses. She’s pretty, he decides. He gives her a slight smile, and she raises an eyebrow. Somehow, they seem to hit it off, getting their own shorthand form of communication almost immediately. He likes her, he decides.

Later, in the Freedom Fighter’s hideout, he decides he likes her even more when she manages to get him his own nickname. She dares him to shoot the straw from Jet’s mouth – he’s standing fifty yards on another platform. The risk is worth it for the wide-eyed confusion, horror, and awe etched into Jet’s face that gets Smellerbee laughing, clutching her middle as she rolls onto her side.

He lets himself smile; he likes it here. Kazon likes these people. He really hopes no one ever finds out about his secret. Kazon doesn’t to run again. He doesn’t know if he could handle being called an _ashmaker_ by these people. He doesn’t want to fight his people, but to get revenge against the men who took his family – he can do that. He has a chance to do that, here.

He has another chance, here, too, one he’s determined not to screw up. He gets a new life, a _free_ life. One where he can choose to do what he wants. He gets new friends and decent food and beautiful scenery. So he sheds his past life – Kazon the firebender is gone. From the ashes of his old life, he’ll create a new one, a better one, under a new name.

_Longshot_.


	2. Chapter II - The First Casaulty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first casualty of Longshot's lie is exposed.

_“In war, truth is the first casaulty." - Unknown_

-[-]- 

He’s free. He is completely, truly, unashamedly _free_.

He wakes each morning to the sun shining down through the canopy. During the day he hunts, he works around their camp, and he spends time with his new friends. He sits at their campfire each night, chuckling at jokes and stories as they eat.

He falls asleep listening to the quiet song of the night, watching the stars and the glowflies. Other times he stays up talking and laughing with Smellerbee, Jet, or one of the others his age. Sometimes it’s multiple, but most often, it’s Bee.

They’re tied at the hip almost from the beginning. They hunt together, swim together, laugh together. They cook and clean and joke and yell. She ropes him into ridiculous pranks on the others.

They understand each other, and it feels _right_. There’s something there, he knows, something he doesn’t want to speculate on and that they both seem to avoid discussing. They never let it get more than stolen glances and smiles across the campfire.

But it’s there, just under the surface, and for now, he’s content with that.

As fall turns to winter and as the nights grow long and cold, she starts staying later and later until she’s sometimes spending whole nights cuddled up next to him. When he finally raises a questioning eyebrow, she scoffs at him.

“I’m cold,” she says, wrapping a blanket around herself and laying down next to him,” and you’re warm. Simple as that.” He shakes his head but he can’t help but smile. She continues, even as winter turns to spring. He doesn’t mind. He likes it.

Life is free, and it’s better than he’d ever dreamed it could be.

Most of the time.

He had sworn off his old life, sworn that he would leave it behind and never look back. He wasn’t Kazon. Never again would he be the young firebender and farm boy. Kazon was dead to his nation. He was a traitor and a deserter. Now, he was Longshot. Longshot, the silent refugee, the expert archer, the Freedom Fighter.

But he can’t help himself.

He remembers the friends he grew up with, Chang and Li and Takumi and Aiko, and his heart caves in. He hopes they’re alright. They were good people, and he wants them to be happy.

And sometimes as he drifts off, he thinks of his family, and he blinks away silent tears. Ash fills his mouth and smoke fills his lungs and clouds his eyes, and there’s a piercing, distant scream in his ears.

He thinks of _that_ word, the one that makes the knot in his chest that never goes away tighten and twist even more. Very few of the Freedom Fighters use it. Bee never uses it, thankfully. But the rest - he hears Sneers use it once, and sometimes Pipsqueak. Jet is the worst; sometimes he mutters it, others it’s screamed at the top of his lungs. No matter what, it’s full of _hate_ and rage. Whenever he does, Longshot pulls his hat low and ducks his head to hide the blood draining from his face.

He keeps his firebending a secret.

His inner flame still burns. He feels it, every single day. It flares inside him with the morning rays and it quiets at night under the stars and the moon. He rises with the sun, just as he always has, and retires as the sun slips below the horizon. But he doesn’t call his flame forth. He doesn’t even practice his katas.

He can’t.

Among this group, with so many horrible stories, with tales of fire turning lives into ash in the wind, he can’t. Jet would cast him out if he knew, or worse. It’s for his own survival, but he hates that lying is his only option. Whenever Bee comes to his hut at night, whenever someone is struggling to get a fire started, whenever one of the young children is cold at night and he can’t help, his gut twists in shame.

But if he were to tell anyone, he’d lose this, lose his new life.

So he doesn’t. And really, he can’t complain.

Because he’s free, and he’s happy.

-[-]- 

It was never supposed to happen.

The day had started out like any other. He’d woken up just before the sunrise, long before anyone else, gone through his morning meditations out of sight behind his hut. He’d found breakfast afterwards, and the Freedom Fighters set out. Today’s task is simple: raid a supply caravan.

They’d set out in silence, darting between trees, perfecting their bird calls. He had taken the first shot on the caravan, and just like every single time, bile rose in in his throat. He _hates_ fighting his own people. It makes him feel sick, but he pushes it away, because he knows now – oh, Agni, he _knows_ – that his people are in the wrong.

He imagines the face of the man who’d come for him, the one who had thrown his father into the flames, and his throat clears, his eyes cloud with rage. It’s easier that way, cocooned and layered in cold, icy rage.

But this…this had never happened.

It had happened so fast. One moment, he’d seen the Fire Nation soldier had been looming over Sneers, anger in his eyes as he raised his sword while Sneers’ back was turned. The next moment, an arrow was leaving his fingers and leaping the distance between the two of them.

It had lodged in his throat.

And now, with the battle over and the day won, Longshot can’t stop staring at him. Staring down at his dead body, blood slowly leaking into the dirt. He looks into the man’s amber eyes, hoping to see something, _anything_ to say that the man is still alive.

But there’s nothing. Just…nothing. No thought, no emotion, no _nothing_. They’re empty and vacant and they stare into the distance. He can’t stop thinking about how _young_ he looks. He sinks to his knees next to the body. His hand is shaking as he reaches out, stops short.

He feels numb. Cold. Stiff. Someone settle beside him, and a moment later Bee’s small hand is threading its way into his. She doesn’t say a word. She just sits there with him, fingers interlocked, and he squeezes down hard.

He can’t bring himself to look away. He watches as the man’s face slowly turns pale.

Eventually, Bee squeezes his hand, pries her hand out of his, and stands. She gives him a gentle hug and lets him stay there until Pipsqueak rests a massive hand on his shoulder. The gentle giant gives him a light tug and whispers,” It’s time to go.”

He lives in a daze. He’s nowhere, yet he’s everywhere. One moment everything is too close, the next it’s all so far away. He walks through his days mechanically, like he’s not in control. He forgets to eat, forgets to bathe, and barely even notices. More often than not, he finds himself lost in his own mind.

There’s one thought he keeps coming back to: maybe he isn’t so different from the man who came for him.

He hides behind his hut, calls upon his inner fire for the first time in nearly a year. He swirls tiny rings of fire around his fingers. He stares at the flames, pondering, wondering – what makes him so different? What separates him from _them_?

Is _he_ an ashmaker?

He’s so lost in thought, he doesn’t hear the small, raspy voice calling his name. He doesn’t hear the quiet pad of footsteps. He doesn’t her until she gasps sharply.

He douses the flames whirling around his hand as he whirls, but it’s too late. His eyes lock onto hers. Her face is twisted, misty grey eyes torn with confusion and hurt, and something inside him breaks in half.

“Shot…” Bee stammers,” you’re…you’re…”

She trails off, but he can finish the sentence. He knows what she would have said. He opens his mouth, but what can he say? _Nothing_ , he thinks, _because I’m what she hates._

“I…I have to go,” she whispers. He gets up, goes to follow her as she tears away, but his legs refuse to move. He sinks back down to the deck and holds his head in his hands. He lets out a choked sob as tears start to track down his face.

-[-]- 

Bee doesn’t tell anyone.

As far as he can tell, his secret his safe, and he swears he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to make things right. For her sake. Because she deserves better. He wants to do something, anything – right here, right now, but he can’t.

She avoids him.

She stops coming to his hut. Stops talking to him. She won’t go on hunting trips, water runs, or raids with him. If they’re forced by circumstance to be together, she avoids eye contact, and doesn’t talk to him unless she has to. Longshot knew that she could be quiet if she wanted to, but this is… _terrifying_.

It’s like he’s walking under a cloud, and everyone notices.

Sneers asks him what’s wrong, but Longshot can’t bring himself to tell the other boy. Pipsqueak tells him a story involving singing groundhogs, a treehouse, and a banana that makes no sense at all. The Duke decides to bring him some fancy rocks and some lychee nuts, and it makes Longshot crack a thin smile. Jet doesn’t say a word. One night he drags him to his hut, gets Longshot to play cards and drink rice wine with Pipsqueak and he into the early hours of the morning.

It helps. For a little while.

He lays awake for hours each night, and when he can finally close his eyes, when sleep finally crashes over him, there’s two empty amber eyes staring back at him. Accusing voices whisper in his ears, and there’s fire all around him. Sometimes amber will bleed into misty grey, and a frizzy-haired girl screams as the flames consume her. When he shoots awake in a cold sweat, his chest heaving, the space next to him seems even emptier.

Every night is colder, now, but those nights, he’s freezing like it’s the depths of winter. And there’s nothing he can do but wait.

-[-]- 

He’s staring at his ceiling when she knocks.

Longshot sits up, eyes going wide as a small head covered in long, frizzy hair appears in his doorway. She’s wrapped head-to-toe in a blanket and her head is tilted down, but it’s her. He knows.

“Can…can I come in?” she croaks.” I…I got cold.” His throat has closed in on itself, so he simply nods. Smellerbee hesitates before she crosses the threshold. It’s been a month since she last said a word to him, since the _incident_ , and it’s both familiar and terrifying all at once.

He hears her toe off her boots, muffling curses, then she stops.” I, uh…I can’t see.”

He holds out his hand, hesitates, looks over at her. He waits until she closes the door, and when she says there’s no one with her, he lets a small flame hover over two of his fingers. She stands there for a moment, gazing at him, before she gingerly pads across the floor. Her eyes are red and puffy and there’s bags under her eyes, too, just like his.

His heart sinks; she’s just as torn as he.

He snuffs out the flame as she sits on the bed next to him. She hesitantly leans over, rests her head on his shoulder, curls into his side. Something in his chest flutters at her muted, content hum. She’d always done that, he’d realized, but he hadn’t known how much he’d missed it until now.

He can’t help but slump over, lean against the wall, because this is _everything_ he’s wanted for a month, yet he’s certain this is temporary. With what he is…it has to be. He’s a bloody _fucking_ ashmaker, he’s _everything_ that’s hurt her. It hangs, unspoken, in the air between them. When he can’t take the silence anymore, when he finally opens his mouth to speak, she beats him to it.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles into his shoulder.

“Me too,” he replies. He doesn’t bother to hide the characteristic rasp in his voice.” Should have told you.”

After a moment, she shrugs.” I get it. I probably…wouldn’t ‘ave taken it well.”

They both know what she means: she would have fought him. She might have even tried to kill him.

“It’s just…all my life, I always thought it… _firebending_ ,” she can barely say the word, and that _hurts_ , knowing that something that’s such a fundamental part of him has caused such pain,” meant destruction. Seeing you with it…just…playing…”

He wavers, but he loops an arm around her shoulders and squeezes lightly. _I understand_ , he’s saying. And he does – he truly does. It had been a shock for her to see fire in that way. To see fire simply… _be_.

Her arms loop around his middle and he sucks in his breath at the tingle that flares gently in his chest as she rests her cheek against his chest, head tipped against his collarbone. On instinct he leans his head down, rests his chin on her forehead, closes his eyes. He smells solid earth and the sharp tang of iron and leather.

Her. He smells _her_.

At first they both stiffen – sure, they’ve literally slept next to each other before, but somehow, this is _different_. This isn’t _just_ sleeping, this isn’t stupid late night conversations, this is being _hurt_ , and coming out the other side.

They sit, curled around each other, breathing in the cold night chill. Neither one moves a muscle. Neither of them, he thinks, wants to be the one to break this.

Somehow, he knows that he doesn’t need to say anything else.

But, he thinks, they’ve sort of always been this way. Him, quiet and taciturn, and her, loud, spunky, and sarcastic. But somehow they worked. Somehow they understood each other. Nothing about this is fixed, he knows – _Agni_ , he has a lot of work to do to truly rebuild her trust. But he’ll do whatever he needs to. Even if she doesn’t ask him to do anything, he’ll still work. He swore to himself he would make it up to her, and he _will_.

They sit there for a long time. He decides to rub warm circles into her back, and when she turns over on her side with a light sigh, he feels warm and fuzzy inside. She goes slack next to him, and he looks down at her. She’s small and lithe and he’s struck, not for the first time, by how Agni-damned _pretty_ she is. He thinks she’s fallen asleep until she turns her head and fixes him with a questioning gaze.

“Show me?” she whispers into the gloom. He knows what she’s asking. He never thought she would, and he’s not sure how to feel.

There’s a pause – should he _really_ do this? Is it right? Is it safe? – but, eventually he nods. He shows her some of the small tricks he’d learned and made up – fire rings around his fingers, making a circle of fire and then breathing fire through it, playing catch with himself. Just little things, all meant to amuse, and nothing that he can’t control.

But the bile is still there, and he still wants to vomit. At least, he does until he looks down at her. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but he’s not expecting _wonder_. She’s staring at the flames, at his stupid tricks, made with an element of _destruction_ , one that’s harmed her so much, and her face is full of wonder and curiosity and _light_.

It’s the first time that he lets think that maybe, just maybe, he can be more than just an ashmaker to these people.

Maybe, one day, he could be more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm not dead! 
> 
> I apologize for how long this chapter took. I had some writers block, then got distracted writing other stuff, and then school started up and now I'm busy as hell. Overall I'm happy with this chapter, but I'm a bit unsure that it matches the quality of chapter 1. But, oh well - can't hold onto things forever.
> 
> I also upped the chapter count by one because this chapter, which is already 2,680 words, would have probably clocked in somewhere between 4,000 and 6,000 words if I included _everything_ that I had planned. Hopefully I wouldn't need to make it a 5-chapter story, but we'll see.
> 
> Thank you everyone for all the love this story has been shown already! Seriously, it's really gratifying, and I can't thank you guys enough. Please, if you have any feedback at all - whether it's something I did well, or did badly - let me know. Any comments and kudos are greatly appreciated.
> 
> Stay safe out there and wear a mask, my dudes!


	3. Chapter III - Live with a Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longshot lives with his lie, and performs one horrible, horrific act that changes his life forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for graphic mention of violence, torture, and death, as well as the normal racism and racial slurs. I apologize in advance for any discomfort or offense those cause. For the record: this story does not, never has, and never will condone racism in any form against anyone, and the same goes for me.
> 
> This story was partially inspired by the racism experienced and perpetrated by all sides of the Hundred Year War in the _Avatar_ universe, and the affect that such racism can have on a person. I'm trying to do so in a way that's both realistic, and respectful. I don't know if its working, and if anyone has tips on how to reach that goal, I'd love to hear them, and I will be eternally grateful to you.

_“A painful truth is better than a pleasant lie.” – Yasmin Mogahed_

-[-]-

When he wakes the next morning, she’s still there, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

Last night had to have been a dream, he thought, because why would it have ever gone so well? But she’s _here_. So…it couldn’t have been.

He doesn’t deserve a friend like her, he thinks. Or…whatever she is, to him. And yet she’s here, anyways. Whatever he is, even though he’s an _ashmaker_ , one of those people that had stolen her life from her, she’s still here. They’re still on rough ground, but…she’s still here.

He has a chance, he thinks, and that’s all he can ever ask for. But, as she tilts her head up and smiles up at him, and sparkles dance in her hair with the morning light coming in through the slats, he finds himself wanting to ask for more.

But every day, he’s forced to face the truth: she’s one of all too few willing to give him even that slim chance.

-[-]-

The Freedom Fighters grow, and their little home in the trees grows with it. The children they care for get younger and younger, and each day he looks at them, something in him twists and squirms. They add ziplines and platforms and hammocks in the sky, little places for them all to get away for just a moment, just _one_ brief moment, a place where they can forget.

Except he can’t forget. None of them can.

They’ve all seen things, now. Done things, things they can’t speak of. Things that haunt them all at night.

That first day, that first time he notched an arrow and it found its way into a crimson fountain, it changed things. It changed them _all_.

They put on a face for the children they protect, one of kindness and gentleness and a bloodless war. At least, bloodless on _their_ part. No, they say, they won’t just _kill_ someone. They can’t. They aren’t…like _them_.

Longshot still can’t bring himself to say it, to admit it, but he knows the truth.

It flashes through his mind each time he lines up an arrow at a gap in crimson armor. Each time he takes the first shot of an ambush that ends in shattered limbs and choked gurgles and crimson liquid sinking into the dirt, it hits him. With every single mission, with every death at his fifteen and then sixteen-year-old hands, he wonders why he’s doing this.

Every time, the lie in he carries in his chest twists a little tighter.

He’s the enemy his friends are fighting with all their hearts. He knows they wouldn’t hesitate to cast him out. Or maybe they would hold him prisoner. Or maybe…worse. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Every once in a while, Earth Kingdom soldiers will come through. The Freedom Fighters will reveal themselves, for a short while, sit and talk with them, give them a little food and water. Sometimes they’ll share a fire and talk into the night. Longshot notices, though, that every time, the conversation takes a turn.

They talk about the war. About the ‘ashmakers’, and the things _they_ do. About the things they do to _them_ , to the _ashmakers_. Things Longshot hasn’t even thought of, even in his worst nightmares.

They laugh as they talk about making prisoners dance for entertainment. About whips and chains and hanging them upside down by their ankles. They jeer as they talk about the time they strapped one down above bamboo, about how he _screamed_ as it slowly grew through him.

They talk about shattering fingers and hands, one bone at a time. About crushing throats so they can’t breathe fire and breaking feet apart so they can’t run. But somehow, it’s not _what_ they say – he’s heard almost all of the slurs before, at one point or another – but it’s the _way_ it’s said. It’s so casual, so…so _normal_. It makes his skin crawl and the hair rise on the back of his neck. It’s different, though, than something like fear. It’s like walking alone through a dark forest, except instead of worrying that something _might_ be out there, you _know_ there’s something with you, and you’re waiting for it to move.

He almost misses it, but Jet and Sneers share a look across the campfire, and it chills Longshot down to his bones.

“It’s retribution, right?” Jet ventures. _Something_ crackles up Longshot’s spine, his hair stands on his end, he goes completely rigid. He barely masks the hitch in his breath.” The _wokou_ bastards have done worse, so give them a taste of their own medicine?”

“We need to make the _gu_ _ǐzi_ pay somehow. This is just the best way,” one of the earthbenders shrugs. It’s like this is…like this is _nothing_ to him.

He feels sick, turns away as bile crawls into his throat. Those are…those are _his_ _people_ they’re talking about. They’re _his people_ , that they’re torturing. There’s a difference, he thinks, between killing someone because you have to, because you’re defending something. He hates it, but he can…he can understand it.

But _this_?

His people haven’t been kind to these men, he can see – the older one has a burn on his neck, the flesh still twisted into an angry scar, and another has a scar across his face, and another walks with a barely noticeable limp. His own people haven’t been kind to _him_. But all he can think is that these are his _people_ that they’re talking about. His sister flashes in his mind, his family – just farmers at heart. Just regular people, trying to live their lives, and these men would so casually throw that away.

Longshot walks away that night, and the lie twists tighter, and for the first time, he truly wonders what will happen to _him_ when it finally snaps.

-[-]-

A year passes. Months come and go, people join and leave, and life goes on. Longshot lives his lie: he wakes up in the morning, he teaches the older children how to shoot, how to hunt, how to fish. He plays and wrestles with the younger ones at night. For a brief time he tries to learn to cook from Pipsqueak – after the second burning soup, however, he’s banned from cooking. Permanently.

He laughs about it later around the fire, and he gazes up at the moon and stars, and as hard as this life can be, he enjoys it.

The knot that’s in chest is still there – how could it _not_ be? – but he gets used to it. He’s still careful. He has to be.

The hardest part, now, is a strangling burn, deep in his chest. He knows what it is. He doesn’t know the proper name for it, but he knows what causes it: refusing to bend for too long. That’s exactly what he’s been doing, and the danger hadn’t even crossed his mind until it was too late. He limits his bending to regulating his temperature, warming himself and the children who huddle around him in the winter. He tells himself he can handle it.

Finally, after two weeks of coughing and hacking and feeling like there’s coals in his lungs and nose, Bee confronts him, and she is _not_ happy.

“Shot, what are you _thinking_?” she scolds him. He pauses, then shrugs. She shakes her head, then jabs him in the chest with a finger.” Tomorrow, you are going to go _practice._ ”

He doesn’t like it, but he agrees, and the next day, she drags him off to a clearing a safe distance away, and simply tells him,” Practice.”

The first tie he tries to unleash a blast of fire, he retches.

But he keeps going. _Firebending is a gift_ , he remembers being told. He was eight when that soldier told him that. So young. So much more inexperienced. He hadn’t seen what the world can do, and now he’s sixteen, and he _doesn’t_ want to firebend. Not ever, not if he can help it. But he keeps going. He pushes through the bile and the crawling and the churning in his stomach. For Bee. So his best friend who he definitely does _not_ have feelings for doesn’t have to see him cough and hack and _worse_.

He doesn’t go out again.

-[-]-

“Hey, Longshot! Is it, uh…is it okay if I sit here with you for a moment?”

He turns, and there’s a lanky twelve year old boy standing behind him with a sheepish grin on his face. He’s used to that – the younger boys come to him with questions all the time – but this time, it’s not just another boy.

It’s the Avatar.

The actual, honest-to-Agni _Avatar_.

All his life, he’s heard about him, and about the Air Nomads. The Air Army. It was why the Fire Nation started the war – to protect the world from the Air Army, to spread the prosperity and glory of the homeland to the rest of the world.

He knows they’re all lies. He knows that there was no army, that the ‘pre-emptive strike’ was a lie meant to cover up the truth: the Fire Nation Army had descended upon hundreds of thousands of peaceful monks like a horde of ravenous tigerdillos.

Longshot had heard stories of how the Air Nomads had responded – his old mentor, that old soldier, had known a few people who were there – and just those stories were… _terrifying_.

So what was he supposed to do against an Air Nomad _Avatar_?

He shrugs, and apparently Aang took that as ‘yes’ because a moment later, he was sitting next to him in the early morning sunlight, his staff balanced across his knees. They sit in silence for what seems like an eternity but had to be only a few minutes. Longshot had come out here to meditate, alone, like he did everything. He’d chosen a different spot than usual, a place on the ground, away from the madness that was having three new people, the Avatar among them. He never thought Aang would take an interest in it.

But then again, Aang _was_ a monk. They probably meditated a lot.

Longshot can tell he wants to say something, but it’s as if he doesn’t know where to start. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the young boy open and close his mouth several times. Longshot raises his eyebrow, turning his head ever so slightly, and the expression on Aang’s face says the boy just jumped out of his own skin. What could he possibly have in mind, if it was this hard to talk about?

The boy swallows, opens his mouth.” I…I know you’re from the Fire Nation.”

_Wha…what?_

He has to force his head not to snap around immediately. He raises an eyebrow, opens his mouth to speak, but Aang beats him to it.

“It’s the eyes. And you’re, like, _really_ pale,” he says.

Longshot’s heart is thundering in his ears. There’s no _way_ this is happening. It’s a little funny – of all the people to have figured him out, it was the lost Avatar. _That_ would be something his sister would laugh at. He forces the thought from his mind. He has more important things to worry about.

He shrugs, then remembers – Aang doesn’t know the little details, the tiny ways he’s learned to communicate over the years that the Freedom Fighters have learned. He looks around for a stick, but doesn’t find one, so he writes in the dirt.

‘So what now?’ he writes out.’ Turn me in?’

Aang’s brow furrows.” Turn you in? Turn you in for what? You haven’t done anything.”

The terror floods away, and it’s replaced by complete, total confusion. Aang should…he should hate him. His people _slaughtered_ the Air Nomads. Butchered them. Men. Women. Children. Everything to do with their culture and their people, turned to ash. And for what?

A _lie._

When he says as much, Aang looks…perplexed. And shocked.

“But…why would I blame you for that?”

“Because…” he rasps, finally choosing to speak. He looks away, down at his hands, at hands that he imagines are coated in ash.” Because my people… _killed_ yours. How could you _not_ hate me?”

“Yeah, your people did it, but _you_ didn’t,” Aang replies. Longshot looks over at him, his brow furrowed, and it’s almost like he’s looking _up_ at the younger kid. Since when was a twelve year old kid so wise?

“And…” Aang continues,” I had a friend. From the Fire Nation, I mean.”

“’Had’?” he echoes.

Aang nods.” Kuzon. He was _so_ cool, always coming up with these…crazy ideas and pranks and dragging me on insane adventures. He tried to ride a dragon once, _that_ was an interesting day.”

Longshot snorts, shakes his head. How ironic. Aang’s friend was Kuzon, and he was _Kazon_ ; just one letter difference. Aang is a nice kid, and he sort of enjoys being around the kid, but Longshot has to wonder…

‘So,’ he writes out,’ was there…something you needed?’

“I, uh…you just looked uncomfortable, when Sokka, Katara, and I showed up,” Aang admits, fiddling with his staff.” And I noticed you and Bee seemed really close, and when I asked her…well, she…sorta told me that you were-“

“A firebender?” he finishes. Aang already knows he’s Fire Nation. And he seems…genuine. Longshot gest the feeling that he could keep a secret, if asked. He’s still going to have words with Bee later – oh, is he _ever_ – but he can forgive her. She had his best interests at heart.

Aang nods.” Yeah. Uh, don’t-don’t be mad at her! I sorta had to drag it out of her. I think it’s super cool, actually! Kuzon was a firebender, and he was like…the _best_. Okay maybe, not, but still, and he was always doing these cool things…”

Longshot snorts as Aang rambles on, but he doesn’t like it. Longshot is…unsettled. He’s not sure how to feel about it. He’s comforted by it, by Aang’s simple acceptance of something so _terrible_. It’s refreshing, the way he treats it as just a fact of life, as a part of Longshot, and not _everything_ about him.

He envies that. He wishes he could bend something else – like water, maybe. Something that gave life, something that couldn’t _just_ destroy, something that wasn’t so _hated_. He wishes he could feel something other than disgust with that side of him. He clenches his hands; some days, he wishes he could tear his bending away.

It’s terrible, and it makes him a danger, to everything and everyone around him. It’s _evil_.

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken aloud until Aang is clutching his arm. He startles, ripping his arm away, looks at Aang’s eyes that are wide and sad and somehow _broken_.

“Don’t say that,” the boy pleads.” Don’t say that – your firebending, it’s…it’s…” Aang sighs, throws his hands in the air, and Longshot imagines that if the boy had hair, he would be tugging at it in frustration.

The Avatar sighs, looks up at him.” Look…not everyone gets it, but they haven’t seen the Fire Nation before. The _Fire Nation_ and firebenders aren’t evil. Neither are _you_.”

He tries to remember those words.

He tries to remember them, a day and a half later, as he lifts himself into the branches of a massive oak tree, one that had been picked three weeks earlier, and he prays.

He stands up on the branch, carefully walks out to the point he’d practiced at. His arms shake as he lifts his bow, and a bead of sweat drips from his hair down to his brow, into his eye. He licks his lips, tastes salt as his heart thunders. He lets out the shrill warble of a marmot falcon, and he prays.

He prays that sense has been driven into _someone_. That someone, _anyone_ has decided this is a bad idea, he prays that he hears a blue jay. His prayers never get answered. A moment later, his heart stops, and what he’s been dreading.

A marmot falcon’s call echoes over the riverbed.

‘ _Firebending is a gift_ ,’ he hears as he raises his bow with shaking arms. He closes his eyes as Aang’s words echo again, and his eyes water. He pulls an arrow from his quiver, knocks it on the string, balances it on his fingers.

He opens his eyes. He pumps out a tiny flare from his finger, the oil-soaked hemp catches in a flare of light, and the smell of the burning, the feeling of his chi roaring inside him, it all makes him gag. He thinks of all the people, in the city below. All of the men and women and children who made but one mistake: living in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He draws, and he thinks of all the things he’s heard, all the slurs, all the insults, all the things he’s heard whispered around him.

 _‘Wokou_ bastards’, as Jet liked to say.

Those soldiers had called him a _gu_ _ǐzi_ , a devil.

 _Colony trash_ , people from the mainland called him.

He’d heard firebenders called ‘flame-faced rats’.

But there’s one that stands out. The same one that _always_ stood out. He aims, and it’s all he can think of.

 _Agni,_ he prays, _please, Agni…forgive me, for being an ashmaker._

The arrow flies, and something inside him dies with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that was enjoyable! Probably a bit darker than the other chapters; at least that's what I was going for. I'm finding that however hard it is to read angst, though, writing is even harder. If anyone has tips for writing it, please share! I would love to hear them.
> 
> I apologize it took me two months, again, to write this chapter. I told myself it wouldn't take so long, but college got in the way. Finals are in a week, and then I have 6ish weeks of winter break where I can actually relax. I plan on writing and posting Chapter IV before break is over. I also took away the chapter limit because I keep remembering events that happened after the war, and things that I need or want to include. I've got other things I want to do, including a Zutara oneshot (yes, california_poppyseed, I remembered) and another Modern AU fic, but Chapter IV is going to be priority one. 
> 
> Thank you, truly, to everyone who has thrown a kudos my way on this story. Even if you're not commenting, I still see you, and I'm thankful for you. 
> 
> If you have thoughts on this chapter, any type of advice, or anything, please drop a comment or leave a kudos! Anything and everything is really, really appreciated. 
> 
> Stay safe out there and wear a mask, my dudes!


	4. Chapter IV - Ashes Like Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longshot struggles with his choices, and with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from the song by Lily Kershaw.
> 
> This chapter proved to be a pain to write. But it's done! Finally! We've now crossed the 10k word mark, and this is officially my longest-ever published work. And we're a little under halfway through. Ish. Anyways! Hopefully this chapter is enjoyable.

_“It’s never just the one person who dies, Bones. Never. We all die a little bit, Bones. With each shot, we all die a little bit.” – Seeley Booth,_ Bones _Season 1 Episode 21, ‘The Soldier on the Grave’_

-[-]-

He should feel something.

Right?

That’s what the correct thing would be. The _normal_ thing. A _person_ would feel something. A _person_ would be angry, or upset, or guilty. A _person_ would be crying, screaming, raging - at themselves, at the world, at anything, at _something_. But no. Not him.

He doesn’t feel a thing.

He watches the rushing waters, watches as the water crashes into the city in the distance, and he doesn’t feel a single thing. He watches, unable to tear his eyes away, as Gaipan drowns.

It’s different than the first time he killed. He had felt numb, then. Numb, and cold - so, so cold. But it had been _something_. Now, he’s just…empty. There’s nothing there, nothing but the harsh reality of what he’s just done.

He remembers when he was twelve. He remembers standing in that field, watching the ash drift down from the sky. He had watched it slowly cover his hands, a thin veneer of dull white and gray over his skin. He’d watched it, with a sort of detached, unfeeling fascination as his hand slowly turned white. It was almost like snow, he had thought.

And suddenly he’s sixteen again, and once more, he sees ash falling from the sky. He sees ash, and fire, and blood. He imagines the people in Gaipan. He can almost see them, in his mind’s eye. Sees them being washed away, sees them flail to grab something they can hold onto as they’re dragged into the unforgiving water, sees them cowering as buildings collapse around them. It’s their blood he sees, their blood covering his hands.

He’d never met them. They’d never done anything to him. They didn’t deserve to _die_. They were innocents. People just like his parents, and his friends back in Nezida. Like him. But they weren’t like him, were they? Because they were normal. They were _good_. They weren’t like him. They weren’t destroyers or murderers or killers. They weren’t _cursed_ from birth, like him.

He was cursed. He always had been. That was the only explanation. The only reason why he was able to do such horrible things, when he hadn’t grown up differently from anyone else.

Longshot, and ashmakers like him, were cursed.

-[-]-

She’s waiting for him when he finally trudges back to camp.

He stops outside his hut, looks down at his bow, at the worn bamboo and wood limbs and leather wrapped grip. It’s the last thing he has of his old life, the last remnant of a happier time, a time before fighting and killing and curses. And now, he can’t bear to even look at it. He lets it fall from his hands, clatter to the wood platform. He slips through his door, toes his boots off, and collapses on the floor. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything else.

“Shot?” he hears a voice mumble. He looks up, and Bee is curled up on his bed, wrapped up in a blanket. She stirs, leans up on one elbow, rubs at an eye with her free hand.” Is that you?”

Her voice is tight and panicked, and he doesn’t need the low light from the candle by his bed to tell she’s a wreck. Even worse than when she’d first seen him firebending, even worse than when _she_ had first killed someone. The guilt that settles in his chest is the first thing he’s felt in hours.

He gulps, nods. He can’t speak right now. His throat is dry and aching and he just…he can’t make himself make the sounds. Bee stumbles over, practically falls into his lap, and pulls him close. She wraps her arms around him, and he hates the closeness, hates her arms around him, her subtle warmth and the way she always smells like leather and oil and earth, he hates hates _hates_ it.

She needs a _person_. Not him.

He loathes that he feels that way, that he hates one of the best parts of his life these past two and a half years, but it’s something. Anything is better than the awful, all-consuming emptiness. He lets her hold him for a moment, just for a moment lets himself indulge, then he pushes gently off of her.

He tries, anyways. Her arms are locked his neck like a vise and she’s clinging to him, tight and close like she’s never done before, like she’s a puppy afraid of a storm rather than a strong, willful young woman. Her face is buried in his neck, she’s shaking in his arms, and she’s so terrifyingly unlike herself that he has to stop himself.

“I was so worried about you,” she says, her voice muffled and quiet,” I-I heard the blast, and th-then you didn’t come back, and…spirits, Shot…we thought _everyone_ in the valley was dead.”

She pulls away, cups his cheeks, looks up at him. If anything were left inside him, it would have shattered at the pure _relief_ etched across her face, at the ebbing anxiety and fear and the guilt buried deep in her mist grey eyes. He cares for her, he finally admits to himself, and she cares for him, it seems, but after this…after what he’s done, and what he knows he needs to do, he doesn’t understand how.

”I thought _you_ were dead,” she whispers.

He shakes his head, and their noses rub together, just the slightest brush, and it tickles in a way that makes something warm, small, fragile, and oh-so-painful bloom in chest.

For better or worse – worse, he thinks – he’s still alive. For better or worse, he’s still here. For better or worse, they’re here, together.

And it’s cruel of him, it’s greedy, but even though he has to push her away, he wants to stay here, wrapped up in her arms. It’s safe and warm and she’s just _good_. And if he’s honest, he’s afraid to push her away. He knows it will kill her, hurt her, and he doesn’t want to do that. He _can’t_ do that, but it’s for the best, he tells himself. Because he’s cursed, and he knows he’ll drag her down with him one day.

For now, though, he’ll stay here. Safe, with her. He’ll allow himself that much.

-[-]-

He didn’t kill a soul.

Not a single person.

The entire city of Gaipan – every man, woman, and child – is _alive_.

But it’s too late. The façade is broken. They’d kept up the lie – Jet, Sneers, Pipsqueak, Bee, The Duke, the other older Freedom Fighters, and he – that the war was bloodless. They’d had their hearts in the right place; at least, that’s what they’d told themselves. But to the children, to the ones who chose not to fight, that doesn’t matter.

And it doesn’t matter to him.

They may not have killed anyone – not _this_ time – but somehow, that doesn’t make it any better. Not for any of them. He doesn’t know about the others, but he…he’s still afraid.

Of himself. Of what he’s willing to do, what he’s capable of. Maybe he didn’t kill them, maybe he didn’t destroy an entire city, but he was _willing_ to do it. He could have stopped. He could have stayed on the ground, out of that tree. He could have held the arrow back, he could have chosen _not_ to light the fire, he could have chosen not to obey Jet’s signal. And yet, he did.

To his mind, somehow, that’s worse.

-[-]-

Longshot had always thought they’d go out quickly. The Freedom Fighters…they’d just never quite seemed like the group to slowly fall apart. He’d had a long, lychee wine-fueled conversation with Jet a few months ago about them. About the war, and the future. About all of it. They’d both agreed – the Freedom Fighters wouldn’t give up. They would not go quietly into the night.

But they had been wrong. So, so wrong.

It starts with the younger kids. They stick to themselves, avoiding the older ones where once they wouldn’t leave them alone. Their faces are drawn and tight and confused. Everyone he sees just seems…broken, he thinks. Even Jet. And then they start leaving. Just in ones and twos, at first, and then groups.

Sneers is the only one who tries to stop it. He tries, but he’s not Jet. He doesn’t have the same charisma, the same easy smile, he doesn’t remember birthdays or tell stories around the fire or comfort kids when nightmares come. He has the same fire, but he’s the only one left.

Their fate is sealed when, after a week and a half, Jet finally comes outside. Half of the people that once lived in the camp are gone, the trees that once sang with the laughter and voices of a hundred children who had made their own little world now dull and empty. He sits at the campfire, stares at the flickering flames.

They’re all quiet, all just…waiting. Waiting for him to start talking, to tell a story or start a speech, something that will rouse them out of this stupor. But when he looks up, looks around at them all, his face is drawn tight, his eyes are hollow and glassy.

“I’m tired,” he says quietly. No one says nothing. There’s nothing to say. They’re _all_ tired. Exhausted. Broken. They just stare into the fire, into its beckoning, beating heart.

Longshot looks at the people around him, at the half-filled bowl in his hands, at the trees, at Jet, at Bee, at anything _but_ the glowing coals, at the ash and embers drifting into the moonless sky. The utterly silent night air is filled only with the crackle of the flames and the scraping of bowls. Then, Jet finally asks the question they’re all wondering. The same one they’ve been wondering for nine long, horrific, silent days.

“What have we become?” he murmurs.

No one bothers to answer. They all know the answer in their hearts. Longshot’s known since he was twelve years old, and he watched ash drift like snow in an afternoon sky.

-[-]-

The day before they’re going to leave, Pipsqueak asks him to come and sit with him, at the same spot they’d always used when the two wanted to get away, one final time.

There’s only the five of them left, now – Pipsqueak, The Duke, Bee, Jet, and he. The same five that had started the Freedom Fighters. Sneers had left three days ago, off to continue his own personal war with the Fire Nation any way he could.

It had been a month since the… _incident_ , and the Freedom Fighters were gone. Tomorrow, Pipsqueak and The Duke would go their one way, and Jet, Bee, and he would another, and the story of the Freedom Fighters would be over. Just another speck of ash, just another thing burned away by a nation of ashmakers.

He shakes his head, banishes the thought from his mind, focuses on the moment in front of him. On his legs, dangling in the air a hundred feet above the ground. On the stars and moon, shining high above, on the quiet song of a sleeping world. On his friend, sitting next to him, his hands folded over his expansive stomach.

“I want to tell you something, Longshot, that I’ve…never told anyone else.” Pipsqueak’s voice is deep, melodic, and if Longshot weren’t wide awake, it would be lulling him to sleep. He nods, and Pipsqueak lets out a deep breath.

“I’m…older than you, but you know that,” he starts.” But…I’m not eighteen. I’m twenty-three. I’m an orphan, yeah, but that’s not why I joined the Freedom Fighters. I joined because I…I deserted the Earth Army.”

“You…deserted?” he rasps. That was…not something Longshot had _ever_ predicted. No one really talked about what they were before the Freedom Fighters. Some couldn’t remember, others chose not to, but either way – no one talked.

“Yeah,” Pipsqueak whispers.” I deserted because…because my unit…we did _things_. Horrible things. Things I still have trouble thinking about. So I know what it’s like. What you’ve been through. But that’s not why I deserted. I left because…something happened to me that I couldn’t believe. To be honest, I’m still not entirely sure it happened.”

Longshot nods at him to continue, his eyebrows raised.

“This was…four years ago, I think? There was a skirmish, and I got separated my unit in all the chaos. I’d been hurt during the fight, and then while I was running, I fell down into this little valley. And I was just…lying there. My leg was broken, I was burned all over, and I was sure I was going to die. And then…I saw _him_.”

“Who was it?”

Pipsqueak gives him a knowing look, and it hits him – Pipsqueak _knows_. But…but Bee hadn’t told anyone. She’d sworn, up and down, and she’d never lie. Not to him. So… _how_?

Pipsqueak must know what he’s thinking because he lets out a deep chuckle.“ Kid, whenever you get anxious, the nearest fire goes crazy. Why do you think you can’t cook?”

Longshot snorts. He supposes that’s true. But it doesn’t answer the most important question.

“If…if you knew, how come…how come you never said anything?”

“Because that day, when I was laying in that ravine?” Pipsqueak explains.” It was an _ashmaker_ that saved me. I was ready to die, and I looked up, and he was just…standing there. I don’t know why, but he…he helped me. He got me out of the ravine, splinted my leg and put this weird paste on my burn, and then he just…walked me back to safety. We shook hands, and we parted ways. I don’t know what happened to him after that. But before he left, I asked him why he did it.”

“What did he say?” Longshot asks quietly.

A strange look crosses Pipsqueak’s face, something in between apprehension and awe.” He said that being a firebender…it didn’t mean he was a monster.”

It sounds a lot like what Aang had told him, he thinks. It’s beautiful, in a way. It’s a good story. Almost too good to be true. But he thinks he understands what Pipsqueak is trying to tell him.

If only Longshot could believe it. But he can’t. Not when he sees ash on his hands and fire on the back of his eyes every night. Not when he’s been lying to one of his best friends for two and a half years.

Not when everything in his life has been turned to ash, drifting like snow in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when this story was originally going to have 3 chapters? Remember when I said Chapter IV was gonna be Priority #1? Ha...ha, I'm hilarious, I know. I do seriously apologize it took me almost a month and a half. A winter break job was a good idea, monetarily; not so much for my sleep schedule and my energy levels.
> 
> Thank you, Pidgeapodge, for what you said on Chapter II (that I didn't need to 'top' Chapter III, as long as I moved the story forwards). It was simple, but it really, _really_ helped me get through this chapter. And while I'm at it, thank you (again) and shout-out to Soozen for being an absolute bro and sharing this story on Tumblr. Both of them are wonderful writers, and you should definitely go check out their works.
> 
> Pipsqueak's story is inspired by one of the most incredible, most unlikely, and most human stories to emerge from the 6 years of the Second World War: the [encounter between Nazi Luftwaffe pilot Franz Stigler and U.S. Army Air Forces pilot Charlie Brown](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie_Brown_and_Franz_Stigler_incident).
> 
> So, anyways, I have a few pieces of news. First off, I am, after 6 years of worldbuilding, finally getting cracking on writing an all-original work that will be posted both here and on Fictionpress, hopefully soon. I bring it up because I am... _really_ excited about it. If it's interesting at all, let me know, and I'll update this when I post it. Anyways, second thing - I have a [Tumblr](https://krastbannert.tumblr.com/) now! I honestly don't know why I made it, but I did, and I'm slowly figuring out how to use the site again. It's mostly just random art and photographs (not mine), fandom and writing nonsense, the occasional meme, and rambling about books. Feel free to stop by!
> 
> You've probably grow bored of me by now, so I'll shut up. I'm aiming to have Chapter V out in about 2-3 weeks. I can't really guarantee any updates until May, though, because classes start back up again in a week and...well, sometimes my major is _extremely_ rage-inducing.
> 
> Happy New Years to you all! Stay safe out there, my dudes.


	5. Chapter V - A Light in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in the darkest night, there's always a light, and Longshot, in the ruins of his second chance, manages to find one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone order what is probably a rather drastic and very sudden change in tone? No? Well, here it is anyways. Don't blame me, blame the characters.

_“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” – Leonard Cohen_

-[-]-

The next morning is bright and beautiful: a dew on the grass, a light breeze in the air, and a gentle golden-orange sun casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. It’s quiet but for the singing of birds and crickets, the occasional guttural call of a hog monkey. It’s serene, tranquil, beautiful. It’s everything he’s ever wanted out of life.

But he can’t help but think the world is mocking them. They’re just trying to say goodbye, goodbye to best friends and to memories and the lives they’ve carved from war. And yet the world seems determined to drive one more nail in their coffin.

There’s an air of finality, like even the spirits know they’ll never see each other again. He doesn’t want to believe it’s the end, but it is, and it’s…it’s _his_ fault.

Perhaps that’s what really, truly hurts as he hugs The Duke, shakes Pipsqueak’s hand. Jet tries to keep a straight face, but Longshot can see the pain hidden in his eyes. Bee is smiling through her own sadness, and he…he is just trying to keep it together. Pipsqueak sets The Duke on his shoulders, and they turn, waving as they part ways.

They promise not to be strangers, to try and write letters or visit or something, but it’s one they all know they might not be able to keep. Not in this world. Not with how much it takes from them all.

“So,” Jet asks, plucking the straw out of his mouth and twirling it in his fingers,” Where to?”

Longshot shrugs, the weight of his bow on his back more pronounced than ever. He still hates the thing, hates looking at it, hates carrying it, but he doesn’t have a choice. He can’t fight with anything else. He knows there isn’t much of a point to keeping his secret, now – Bee already knows, and Jet will find out at some point – but it’s so ingrained in him that keeping it secret is just…it’s a part of him, now, this suppression of his abilities.

He knows the reception it would get anywhere in the Earth Kingdom. He knows how _Jet_ would feel.

“We’ll follow wherever you go,” Bee swears. She loops an arm through his, and after a moment, loops the other through Longshot’s. For one, all-too-brief moment, it’s…it’s like old times. The three of them, bright-eyed and hopeful, setting off on another adventure.

They’ll never be like that again – how can they, after all the things they’ve seen, after all they’ve done? – but they have a chance to make something new. And that is…well, he doesn’t know what it is, but it’s something.

Jet looks off into the distance, at the rising sun, and Longshot follows his gaze. He can’t help but wonder what it is Jet sees, so far out there.

“Ba Sing Se,” he finally says.” Let’s go to Ba Sing Se.”

-[-]-

It’s strange with just the three of them. The road is far quieter, far longer, far more _boring_ than anything they’ve ever had for the past two and a half years. It peaceful, though, without all the fighting, and perhaps it would even be nice – exciting, even – if there wasn’t a cloud hanging over them. It’s been over a month, now, and they’re all still in shock and disbelief. But, Longshot thinks, maybe they’re getting better.

He can see glimpses of it, occasionally. He sees it when Bee asks Jet why he takes so long to pick new wheat straws to chew on, and he explains that each type of plant has a subtly different flavor. He sees it when Jet dares him to shoot a beehive because _what could possibly go wrong?_

Termite wasps and his face turning into a giant puffball, as it turns out, were what could _possibly_ go wrong. Jet found the whole thing hilarious. Bee, did, too, but she managed to hold back her laughter.

Longshot glared through swollen eyes and puffed cheeks and flashed his fingers on instinct. _This means war, dickface._

Bee finally breaks and descends into fits of cackles. Longshot glares harder.

-[-]-

“If you weren’t here, where do you think you’d be?”

There’s a loud pop from the fire, and sparks cascade into the air as one of the logs collapses. It’s an odd question to ask, Longshot thinks, and the fire seems to agree. It’s a question that he’s avoided thinking about. He’s avoided it because he already knows the answer: Bee and Jet would be trying to kill him, and he them. He would never have met them, his two best friends. Not really.

At least one of the three would be lying in a ditch somewhere, covered in burns, or with an arrow or knife buried in their chest.

If he weren’t here, he would have been two years out of camp. He would have been sorted into a branch – probably the Fire Army, like his sister. Maybe he would have been an archer; maybe they’d be in the Yuyan together. It had been Tomiko that taught him to shoot, after all, and she was _good_ , better than him. More likely, he would have been put in a _k_ _aen hōsha-ki_. He was a firebender, after all. Either way, he would have been at the front lines.

But he hadn’t wanted that. He hadn’t wanted _any_ of that.

He’d never wanted to fight. Tomiko had always been the patriot. He had always wanted to be a farmer. Or a glassmaker, maybe. Something where he could create, where he could _build_ rather than destroy. He wonders for a moment if his family would be proud of him for that. But fate had been cruel, and he’d been cursed with fire for blood and ash on his hands, and what had that gotten him? A family drenched in fire and ash, that’s what.

But he can’t say any of that. Not to Jet. Because Jet would kill him if he knew.

He realizes that Jet is staring at him, waiting for an answer. Longshot finally shrugs. He doesn’t have an answer, not one he can tell Jet, anyways.

Jet seems to accept it. He peers into the crackling fire for a long moment before he finally says,” I don’t know either, really. I guess I…always wanted to protect others.”

Longshot cracks a thin smile, one of the first in a while, and signs, _At least you sort of got your dream._

Jet barks out a laugh.” Yeah, guess you’re right. I kinda did, didn’t I?” He sighs deeply, and something crosses over his face. It’s that same look that he always got when the Earth Kingdom soldiers showed up, the one that always made Longshot’s blood go cold.” I might have gotten that dream, but if I ever dreamt of something else, the ashmakers burned it out of me a long time ago.”

Something seizes in his chest. Those words…they hurt, especially that one. He knows it just slipped out of Jet’s mouth, that it was just instinct, that it was just…part of Jet, this hatred, but he still stiffens, his hands clench, his body goes on high alert. Jet, he knows, will just interpret it as a fear reaction. A gut instinct, born of terror and violence, to suddenly snap into alertness. But it’s not. Not entirely.

Because he’s guilty. He knows he’s not, not really, that it wasn’t him that had done all those terrible things. But they’re still _his people_. He’s still _one of them_. He’s still a bloody fucking ashmaker. But he can’t say that. Not yet. Maybe someday, when there’s no more wars and there’s no more running, maybe then he’ll tell him.

Every day, though, that day feels a little farther away.

He finally breathes again when Jet sighs, looks away.” I’m, uh, I’m sorry, Shot. I know no one likes it when I talk like that. I’m trying to better.”

Longshot inclines his head. _Apology accepted_.

“Let’s…talk about somethin’ else,” Jet says. He points between them.” How long you guys been together?”

He scowls at his friend, but his cheeks are suddenly burning as he gazes down at Bee. Her head is pillowed in his lap, her feet kicked up on Jet’s outstretched leg. He can’t help but smile as he looks down at her, runs a hand through her hair. She stirs, mumbles something under breath, and he thinks his heart might stop when she turns on her side, tucks her head closer to his hand.

“It’s obvious,” Jet continues,” I mean, you guys _have_ been sleeping together for like two years, for fuck’s sake.”

Longshot shakes his head. They’re not together. Best friends, yes, but together? No. They’re not. And he doubts they ever will be. She deserves better than him. Far better.

“Oh, come on, Shot! You can’t be serious?” Jet exclaims. He shrugs. _I’m serious_ , he signs back. _Besides, I’m not sure she’d want me._

“Now you’re just being crazy,” Jet shakes his head.” She _loves_ you, man. Make a move.”

When he shakes his head, Jet shoves him.” Alright, now you’re just being an _idiot_. Tell you what, I’ll help you out.”

Oh. Oh _no_. No, he is not about to let Jet do that. He shook his head, frantically – he cannot lose Bee. Not now. He needs…he needs her. He’ll have to push her away, maybe someday, but he’s going to keep that day as far away as he possibly can. Perhaps that’s cruel. It probably is.

But what is it compared to his other crimes? And anyways - he needs her, his best friend.

Jet just rolls his eyes.” You’re a dumbass, Shot, you know that? Fine, I won’t go out of my way. But if you hurt her, mark my words: I _will_ kill you.”

He manages to crack a smile, playfully shove Jet – and it feels good, he realizes, really good, to just talk like _teens_ for the first time in a long time – but in the back of his mind, he can’t help but wonder that if Jet would do that to protect Bee, what Jet would do if he knew the truth.

-[-]-

Jet keeps his word. Sort of.

He doesn’t do anything overt. For not going out of his way, he certainly goes _out of his way_.

He takes walks – _long_ walks – when they make camp. He makes kissing faces when only Longshot can see him. He makes jokes and allusions about the two of them until they pelt him with acorns. When he tries again, they dump him in a lake. They stop at a hot spring, and after only a few minutes of soaking, Jet announces he’s had enough for one day. He throws a wink at Longshot over his shoulder as he walks away.

Oh, he is going to _murder_ his friend. And he’ll get Bee to help him hide the body.

They’re left alone in the water, sitting across from each other soaking in just their undergarments. He casts a glance at Bee, and when their eyes meet, something floods over him – desire, embarrassment, frustration, a mix of all three? He doesn’t know. But he knows that his cheeks are suddenly filled with fire, and something burns in his gut. There’s a small, shy smile on Bee’s face, and a red flush in her cheeks, and he feels his pulse quicken as he looks away.

_Fuck_. He’s got it bad.

But he still turns away. He turns away, holds himself back, because as much as he _does_ want this, as much as he wants her and wants her to know, even if he gets rejected, doing so…it would just make everything worse. Because he’ll have to push her away someday. She deserves better than someone like him. Someone who isn’t cursed, who isn’t broken by the things they’ve done.

He knows what he has to do.

-[-]-

He takes a deep breath as he steps outside, sits on the stairs of the inn they’d finally, _finally_ seen. He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and groans as he runs a hand over his face. They’ve been on the road for…three and a half weeks, now, if he remembers correctly. Three and a half weeks, and it feels like a lifetime. It’s the last stretch until Ba Sing Se – another three days, and they’ll be at Full Moon Bay, and the City of Stars can give them their second chance.

It sounds good. Really good. But there’s something Longshot has to do first.

He glances up at the moon, at the face of Chang’e. He hopes he has the strength for what he’s certain is coming next. He’s been working himself up to it, trying to make some sort of peace with it. But he hasn’t, and he doubts he ever will. Because, he thinks as the door opens behind him, he’s about to rip them apart.

She sits on the stairs next to him with a softly whispered,” Hey.”

He nods back, hesitates a moment before he slips an arm around her. She hums quietly, shifts to lay her head on his shoulder, and he stiffens. She doesn’t know what’s coming – how can she? – and he…he just hopes…he doesn’t know what he hopes, actually.

“You okay, ‘Shot?” she whispers. He nods, gives her a gentle squeeze, but it’s a lie, and he’s fairly sure that she knows.

“Just needed some air,” he whispers into the cool night air. She nods against his shoulder.

“Yeah, me, too,” she says. The world, for a few blessed moments, is quiet, silent but for a twilight song of cicadas and crickets, the gentle swish of wind through reeds in the nearby lake, the croaking of horned toads, the cheers and yells and music from the main room of the inn spilling from the windows. It’s peaceful and quiet and beautiful, and everything Longshots has ever wanted out of life, but doesn’t deserve.

“We should talk,” Longshot whispers after a moment. He feels Bee stiffen, then nod against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” she breathes.” This is…it’s about Jet, isn’t it? About his… _attempts_?”

She’d noticed. Of course she had – Bee noticed everything, somehow. And it’s not like Jet had been subtle.” It is,” he rasps.

“I…don’t know how to do this,” Bee whispers as she straightens, turns to look at him, and he has to turn his eyes away. He can’t look at her right now. Coward, he thinks, he’s such a coward that he can’t even face her, when he’s about to cause her so much pain.

He shrugs, gestures that he’ll start, but he doesn’t know how to, either. How does one go about ripping someone’s heart out? How does he tell her that he cares about her, that he can’t stand the thought of being without her, but that she needs to stay away from him? That she should stay away, so he doesn’t end up hurting her, like he’s hurt so many others?

Being direct, he supposes, is probably the only thing he can do.

He’s thankful for the lanterns by the door. It’s just light enough that he can sign, and thank Agni for that, because he couldn’t talk if he tried right now.

His hands flash, _I care about you, Bee. A lot._

She snorts.” Well, yeah, I know that, idiot. And I care about you, too.” He risks a glance over and – is that a hopeful glint in her eyes? No, no, that must be his imagination.

He shakes his head, and her eyes widen.” You…you mean…?” she asks slowly. He sees hope and astonishment flicker across her face, and his heart sinks. He knows what that look means. It means…it means she does, too.

He nods, swallows. His heart is hammering in his chest, racing like a komodo rhino, and he has to take a deep breath.

_But…we…we can’t be together._

The look on her face, the soul-crushing disappointment and confusion in her eyes, etched into her face – she’s not just pretty, she’s _beautiful_ , he can finally admit – makes his chest ache, and he has to look away. He can’t see that. He knew it would come, but it…this hurts far, far more than he ever could have imagined.

“But…Shot…why?”

_Because_ , he starts, but then he stops. How does he even put this into words? He knows the truth, knows what he needs to say, but he can’t bring himself to say it. _Because…you deserve better._

Her eyebrows narrow.” What do you mean?”

_I’m…cursed,_ he starts. _And you deserve someone who’s…who’s better._

“Shot-“

“No,” he finally interrupts, and he barely recognizes his voice, raspy and thick and quiet.” You just…you deserve more. The things I’ve done, the things I’m _capable_ of…I can’t-“

He feels something hard meet his face, hears a loud _thwack_ , and he’s barely able to register that she just _slapped_ him when her hands cup his face, and-oh.

_Oh_.

His hair stands on end and for a split second, for one brief moment, the rest of the world fades away, and the only thing he can feel is her nose against his, her callused hands on his cheeks, her lips on his. And then she breaks off, turns away, and he’s left trying to catch his breath. Holy Agni above, he thinks. He blinks, staring at Bee, who’s looking at him with a strange, shy, embarrassed look on her face.

“Sorry, Shot,” she starts.” You just…you were talking nonsense, and I didn’t…I just needed to get you to shut up.”

He doesn’t respond. He’s still awestruck. He lifts a hand, presses it to his lips, staring straight at Bee but not at her at all. It’s like he can still feel her lips against his, the pressure, the warmth, the slight hint of honey from her tea.

It’s mind-blowing.

“I-Shot, you should know that I don’t _care_ about that. About _any_ of that,” she says to him, her voice soft and soothing. Like a lullaby, he thinks.” Because I know _who_ you are. And that’s more important than any damn curse your idiotic brain has thought up.”

Like all the other times he’s heard something like that – about how firebending is a gift, about how he’s not a monster, about how he’s not cursed – he’s not sure he can believe it. Others can say it as much as they like, but he’s seen the evidence, and he _knows_ what he can do. But then again…

But then again, Bee has seen it, too, hasn’t she? And so has Jet – Jet, who’s done the same things he has, and is trying to move on from them. They both saw something in him. Pipsqueak and Aang had seen something in him, too.

He has no idea what they saw in him, but perhaps, one day, he could see it, too.

He takes a long, deep breath. He tips his forehead against Bee’s, and finally nods, finally, finally gives in. She presses her lips to his, and they’re clumsy, and there’s too many teeth, and his heart is pounding in his ears and it’s…it’s…it’s one of the sweetest things he’s ever had. Warmth blossoms in his chest and he has no idea what to do with his hands, but he wants her close, as close as he can get her. Unfortunately, she has the same idea, and when she tries to lean closer just as he tries to pull her in, they fall over in a fit of breathless giggling.

They lay there on the inn’s porch, staring into each other’s eyes as they catch their breath, and there’s a faint, embarrassed smile on Bee’s face. And for once, Longshot lets himself think that maybe, just maybe, he’s not _completely_ cursed.

“Fucking _finally_!” the shout interrupts his thoughts. He sits up, turns to see jet standing in the doorway, an exasperated expression on his face.” Do you realize how _long_ I’ve been waiting for you idiots to finally get it together?”

Perhaps Jet’s nonsense is another curse to add to his list

But, he thinks as they go back inside, with his hand threaded with Bee’s and a small smile on his lips, that’s the one curse, among all the ones he has, that he…really doesn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to stop opening my big mouth. I apologize this took so long to write. First, good news: I actually have an outline for this story now. Some interesting news: said outline is up to ten chapters and I'm not even at Sozin's Comet yet. And the bad news: I have literally no idea how that outline is going to change my update schedule. I won't promise anything, so I'll just say I have an idea of how to proceed. Whether or not it works is subject to whether or not my professors decide they want to kill me with homework and midterms. Who knew an engineering degree was so hard?
> 
> Chang'e is the Chinese goddess of the moon. 'kaen hōsha-ki' is, according to Google, Japanese for 'flamethrower'. I'm not sure if that's translated correctly - if it isn't, someone please let me know.
> 
> It felt more than a little odd, writing genuine fluff for the first time in...uh...a while. Add to that I'm a pretty awkward guy, and...yeah. Unlike the last 2 chapters, I'm not that happy with this one. But it needed to be written to move the story onwards. So...hopefully it was alright. Any thoughts you have, good or bad, are appreciated.
> 
> As always, if you want to see me spewing fandom nonsense, the occasional writing update, and a bunch of other random bullshit, my Tumblr is [@krastbannert](https://krastbannert.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Be kind out there, my dudes.


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